Beige is the color of plain khaki pants. The color of dead grass. The color of oatmeal. Beige was also the color of my brand new bedroom walls. The disgusting brown shade permeated my thoughts entirely, and I saw myself in it. After my parents’ divorce, I found myself in a new, unfamiliar home with my mom. I missed my purple walls that, when the right lighting from the sun hit them, epitomized crocus flowers dancing in a gentle breeze. The beautiful photographs, and the pleasurable posters that had once been on display for all to see were now hidden within the confines of beige boxes, encapsulated in a beige dungeon. In an attempt to distract myself from my current sorrows, I begin to unpack the boxes. As I opened them, I am reminded of many moments from life as I knew it. I may have only gone without these relics for a few days, but the meanings had changed forever. Inside of the first box I comb through, countless photographs emerge. Their beautiful frames …show more content…
The old, worn baseball glove I used to wear when I played softball reminds me of my father. I am able to hear him telling me over and over again to just keep my eye on the ball, and see the approving grin he gave me when I caught my very first home-run ball at a Hot Rods game. Next, the beautiful, hand-crafted jewelry box my mother had given me when I was younger reminds me of all our mother-daughter days. It was natural experiencing these memories of us together; creating new memories with my parents separately was a heartache I could not have prepared myself for. I run my fingers up and down its intricate design as I notice the final artifact in this box: a string of fairy lights, which always made me happy for some unknown reason, sitting alone at the bottom of the box. I noticed there were already nails in the walls, and immediately began to plug the lights in. The glistening white light they gave off always gave me
Under the orders of her husband, the narrator is moved to a house far from society in the country, where she is locked into an upstairs room. This environment serves not as an inspiration for mental health, but as an element of repression. The locked door and barred windows serve to physically restrain her: “the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.” The narrator is affected not only by the physical restraints but also by being exposed to the room’s yellow wallpaper which is dreadful and fosters only negative creativity. “It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide – plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions.”
My mind started to wonder though each room of the house, the kitchen where mom used to spend every waking hour in. The music room where dad maintained the instrument so carefully like one day people would come and play them, but that day never came, the house was always painfully empty. The house never quite lived to be the house my parents wanted, dust bunnies always danced across the floor, shelves were always slightly crooked even when you fixed them. My parents were from high class families that always had some party to host. Their children were disappointments, for we
Wally Amos: Famous Cookies Wally Amos was a remarkable black man. He invented the Amos cookies that are very delicious. Being a black entrepreneur isn't easy but he made it. Doing this he had many challenges which including being a black entrepreneur, being able to be creative with an idea, and being successful. Being a black entrepreneur isn't easy but Wally achieved that.
As I walked through the door of the funeral home, the floral arrangements blurred into a sea of vivid colors. Wiping away my tears, I headed over to the collage of photographs of my grandfather. His smile seemed to transcend the image on the pictures, and for a moment, I could almost hear his laughter and see his eyes dancing as they tended to do when he told one of his famous jokes. My eyes scanned the old photographs, searching for myself amidst the images. They came to rest on a photo of Grandpa holding me in his lap when I was probably no more than four years old. The flowers surrounding me once again blended into an array of hues as I let my mind wander……
I am rummaging through a cardboard box full of pictures, looking for the perfect one to put in one of those sentimental Mother and Daughter word frames from Hallmark. Finally, a photo falls from the box, and I pick it up, knowing I have found what I am looking for.
We pull up to the two story run down house, and I feel home. The unwatered brown grass, and scratched up door brings a smile to my red, tear filled face. I go up to the guest room, where I have my secret stash of clothes for whenever I escape my house, to come here. I see the brown bed, with a mint green quilt, with the unmatched white side table where a coster lies, along with a lamp. The dark maroon wall reflects my emotions perfectly.
Being in the kitchen, I instantly feel at home. The gleaming chrome refrigerator filled with all sorts of shapes and colors fills me with joy. The glossy light brown shelves with their small, shiny silver knobs the size of quarters, reflect what is happening around them as if they were recording a movie; the people passing by them and the television screen changing colors. The microwave, that sits above the four dark, glistening, wide eyed stovetop stares at me, making me feel like I want to sprinkle a cake with love and care. A little to the right is the milk white pantry with foods and boxes in all color. Walking over to the pantry, I see one particular box that stands out of all t...
Everything seems like it’s falling out of place, it’s going too fast, and my mind is out of control. I think these thoughts as I lay on my new bed, in my new room, in this new house, in this new city, wondering how I got to this place. “My life was fine,” I say to myself, “I didn’t want to go.” Thinking back I wonder how my father felt as he came home to the house in Stockton, knowing his wife and kids left to San Diego to live a new life. Every time that thought comes to my mind, it feels as if I’m carrying a ten ton boulder around my heart; weighing me down with guilt. The thought is blocked out as I close my eyes, picturing my old room; I see the light brown walls again and the vacation pictures of the Florida and camping trip stapled to them. I can see the photo of me on the ice rink with my friends and the desk that I built with my own hands. I see my bed; it still has my checkered blue and green blanket on it! Across from the room stands my bulky gray television with its back facing the black curtain covered closet. My emotions run deep, sadness rages through my body with a wave of regret. As I open my eyes I see this new place in San Diego, one large black covered bed and a small wooden nightstand that sits next to a similar closet like in my old room. When I was told we would be moving to San Diego, I was silenced from the decision.
After a long car ride, I finally arrived at my grandparent’s house and there were so excited to show my sister and me around the house and the neighborhood despite it being midnight already. It was a nice sized home compared to the houses around it but it did not meet up to my expectations. I was so used to the comfortable bed with air-conditioning, but this house does not have air-conditioning nor is there a proper bed. Instead, there was a cushion type of mat that I laid on to sleep. As I was trying to sleep, I knew that this was going to be a long six weeks of my life. I will miss the unique gadgets back in my home, my comfor...
As I look back on my childhood a great number of memories hide in my mind; sleepovers with friends, hanging upside down on the monkey bars, eating ice cream are but a few. The one memory that doesn't hide is of the postcard perfect house that I love and adore. From the hearty cattails and rose brown apple trees to the grilled cheese, this place reminds me of my childhood fun but also the love that my whole family shared. The red brick house and its surroundings will keep my memories forever.
In a flea market, a shoe box filled with photographs. This is all we have. Whose lives might be recovered, if only the box had been labelled? I found it laying in a corner of the street, near an old manor where we live, my brother and me. There were men and women neatly tucked in pressed suits and fine linen dresses. They are our family, I imagine. Nameless faces attentively listening to our stories, witnessing the cold lifeless concrete of a flea market; it’s parched landscape that otherwise looks beautiful in the orange twilight. We have more money than it can last us a lifetime, but it cannot buy us our family back. I stare enraptured as strangers scurry down their separate ways, unknown to the solace they and the nameless faces in the photographs provide me, but my brother, he hates them. A single conversation with him, and one would say he hates the face of humanity itself. “Never trust anyone,” he constantly warns. “They leave you when you need them the most.” Our parents leaving us had scarred him deeply. He does not like coming here, but I know that there is a small part of him, albeit hidden away, that craves for company. On this particular day, the sun bathes me in sunlight from behind my brother’s head making me squint up at his silhouette. My thoughts are interrupted by a loud crash of porcelain china doll falling of our stand, its pieces damaged beyond repair. Dozens of dolls lay on our stand that my brother bought from a rather expensive antique store, in a futile attempt to blend in with the rest of the commoners.
There was no lawn, but there were four flower planters. The house was painted all white, with the exception of the front door that was painted light green. My grandfather was still young, strong, and full of life, he always had time to play with his grandchildren. Every Sunday he would take us to the park, would buy us ice cream, and take us to Sunday mass. On the day when this picture was taken, we were celebrating my 10th birthday, and I was dancing with my grandfather. I cannot remember the song, but I do remember what he told me while dancing slowly. He said “My little girl” how he used to call me,” in five years you won’t be a little girl, you will become a young lady.” At that moment I could not understand what he meant, but in my mind I was saying “grandpa I will always be your little girl.” While dancing, he made me a promise, “My little girl on your 15th birthday, I will dance the first song with you.” Who would know that he was going to die on my 15th birthday year, he passed away on June 21th, 1987 on Father’s Day. He left me with so many beautiful memories, but the most important was my first dance on my 10th birthday. On the night before my 15th birthday, I went to bed around 10 p.m. I was feeling depressed, because I was only thinking of the promise that my grandfather had made in the past. A promise that in my mind was not going to
It was on a Friday morning at 4:30 A.M. that happiness and joy filled the hearts of both my parents. I was born on November 29, 1996 at Broward General Hospital in Fort Lauderdale Florida. My parents had five children, and among the five children that they had, I was the third (or middle) child from them. It started off as two boys, then I came along as the first girl, after it was another boy, then finally, another baby girl; so total was three boys and two girls. The way that my parents lived and treated each other was the same as if any other married couple that loved each other so much. They’ve gone through a lot to get to where they are now today, but they made it and along the way had us five children. They have been really strong with each other which made them only have the five of us and no other step children. My mom is a great cook and enjoy cooking for us; this is probably where my passion for culinary comes from. My dad is an amazing tailor, he is very good at making our clothes, and my passion for fashion probably came from him. My dad is also a teacher, one of the best math teacher I know, he is passionate about his job and his family is the center of his universe. I cannot finish this chapter without mentioning my grandmother, I was lucky enough to have ever met. I had spent part of my life time with her, like the rest of the family she is sweet, my grandmother Abelus,
It stood out from all the rest in the peaceful neighborhood where my grandparent’s house was. The glittering white paint that seemed to never fade, the garden where rose bushes, lilies, elephant ears, trumpet plants and hibiscus filled the earth around you with welcoming colors and the sense of warmth and love. Every awaking moment of my childhood was spent there. My grandparents house was a place of comfort and security, and yet also one of sorrow.
My family just moved 11 miles from Shillington to Plowville. This is the town where my mother was born. Mother says’ she wants to get back to her roots (John Updike Bio-1”). We live in an old but very cozy stone house on a huge 80-acre farm. I am really enjoying living here now. I love listening to the animals and birds at sunset, and reading out in the old barn. (Liukknen) My mother seems to like the space; it was pretty cramped over at my grandparents’ house. It’s been a few months since we moved and my mother is still getting our new home cleaned. New pictures and paintings appear on the walls during the day only to be moved to another room or put back into a storage box. I’m happy that I can continue g...